he buttress roots of a tall tree was a crude shelter of palm
leaves. Before this lay the scattered bones of a man. The skull had been
crushed by a mighty blow.

The bones were picked clean--had been stripped and torn asunder days
before, and the vulture which had just left had gotten nothing for its
belated visit. Among them were remnants of cloth, a belt and a machete,
and strands of coarse black hair. A few feet away lay a cheap "trade"
gun. Lourenco inspected the weapon and laid it back.

"Did he shoot before he was downed?" asked Knowlton.

"No. The gun is loaded. His death came from above." The bushman ran his
eye up the towering tree, then pointed to a large dark object on the
ground near by.

"Castanha--Brazil-nut tree," he explained. "That heavy nut fell and
smashed the Indian's skull like an egg. Indian, yes. His gun, his
shelter, and his hair show that. And"--stooping and pointing at one of
the bones--"that bone shows who he was. See, Capitao."

McKay looked down on a leg bone. At some time the leg had been broken
and badly set, if set at all. The bone was crooked.

"A short Indian with a crooked leg. Schwandorf's messenger!"

"_Si._ No man will ever receive the message he bore. He camped here days
ago. Now he camps here forever."

CHAPTER XII.

THE ARROW

Slowly, silently, two canoes glided along the still, dark water of a
gloomy creek over-arched by the interlaced limbs of lofty trees.

The first, propelled by the slow-dipping blades of two Brazilian
bushmen, seemed to be seeking something; for it nosed along with
frequent pauses of the paddles, during which it drifted almost to a stop
while its crew searched the solemn jungle depths reaching away from the
right-hand shore. The second, carrying three bronzed and bearded men of
another continent, was only trailing the leader. It moved and paused
like the first, but the recurrent scrutiny of the farther gloom by its
paddlers was that of men who saw only a meaningless, monotonous bulk of
buttresses and trunks and tangle of looping lianas. In this dimness and
bewildering chaos the trio might as well have been blind. The eyes of
the tiny fleet were in the first boat.

The progress of the dugouts was almost stealthy. Not a paddle thumped or
splashed, not a voice spoke. They moved with the alert caution born not
of fear, but of wary readiness for any sudden event--like prowling
jungle creatures which, themselves seeking quarry, must be ever on